


Le Pianiste

by Astray



Series: Bones, Skulls, and Kittens [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Family of Choice, Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 21:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: Fang is many things - at least according to his relatives. When you grow up in a conservative, old-fashioned family that holds nothing for you but contempt, well... tracing your own path into the world while pissing them off seems a legit option.Especially since he is encouraged by his aunt, who happens to be a terrible enabler.





	Le Pianiste

Fang was not his name. But it was the name he had picked for himself. He had stopped answering to that name years ago anyway, and the few relatives he had who were not complete assholes, well, they accepted his chosen name. He was grateful for Zetiva, and Natil, and Faze. Even more so when Zetiva and Natil officially  took him in after he got back from boarding school. His mother had made it clear that she would have nothing to do with a son who had that kind of reputation. Because reputation was what stained walls, broke china, and left a pestilential stench in its wake. Whatever you said, mother. Although, to be absolutely honest, his parents could have been clearer about what he had to find in boarding school. The only thing he was grateful for was that his parents would not send him to conversion therapy - because then again, they would have to eventually face the very public stigma of it. While if you let your youngest son live with his aunt and her husband, it could be interpreted as you wanting more time for yourself, to rest. 

Of course, no one told him this. But he did not need to be told to know. He was very aware that his parents wanted the world to forget they ever had him. That there might have been another pianist in the family. Or rather, a third one, but Zetiva only played for herself, and honestly could not care less about making a living out of it. The only thing their family did not object to was her choice of a husband, as Natil was a doctor. Fang smirked. If only the rest knew that that wedding was for convenience alone, to “keep prying narrow-minded idiots out of their lives”, to quote Zetiva. Who was usually a lot more laid back. Although Fang had been surprised when it was Faze, Natil’s actual - if unofficial - partner who actually said they might as well take him in, because why do you even need that part of the family anyway? Faze was also a doctor - a surgeon. Fang was fairly sure that if his mother had known about Faze, she would have railed her sister for not marrying according to her station. Whatever that meant. But Zetiva did not care a whit what others thought, and that was just as well. 

A stack of music sheet was dropped on the table in front of him. Saint-Saëns. The  _ Danse Macabre _ . He looked up to find his aunt staring down at him. In the bright daylight, her hair looked almost golden, instead of white. He had always known her with white hair - silver, then white. And she was not even old enough to have white hair. But he was used to it, did not question it. 

“If you are done spacing out, nephew mine, how about some practice, before your fingers fall from your hands?” 

He groused, as he always did, but he got up, all the same. He just got the last part of his face done. The skull tattoo had taken many sessions to be completed, and the healing process had to be monitored more carefully, especially when the artists started working around his eyes. The itch had been the absolute worst. It was destroying his concentration, even if he had that in spades. It was mostly healed now. He was perfectly happy staying inside, so being cooped up in summer was no problem for him. He had come to visit because, well, it was easier caring for a tattoo if you had someone to help put ointment on the areas he could not reach. Or rather, if someone else put that cream on him, he would not be as tempted to scratch as much scabbing as he could. 

He was not about to ruin it, not after having gone through that type of pain. He already had gone through the spine tattoo a while back. Each time, he had had to drive to the artists he wanted to work with. It was not easy to come by - artists who actually knew their anatomy enough to draw bones. Even less common were artists who accepted to tattoo someone’s face. He recalled that one of them had seemed to find it rather entertaining - a pianist with a skull tattooed all over his skin. Although it had been an idea that had been on his mind for a long time. He had started with the spine. Easier to conceal, easier to cover if he found he did not like it. He had started extensive tattoos when he was twenty-five, he had decided to cover the scars, and the terrible mistakes that were tattoos done during a rebellious phase. Now he had ivy crawling up his legs, reaching and morphing into the spine. He would work on his arms next. But the face. The face had been important. He was thirty-four now. He was making a name of himself as a pianist, as a graphic novel writer - the latter having come up before, mostly because he had stayed away from any instrument for a long time. But it was his time, he had a good feeling about. 

He went to sit in front of the pianoforte. It had been a huge ‘screw you’ to their relatives, because they had been dumb enough to ask Zetiva what they could give her as a parting gift. So of course she had to ask for a full piano, the kind that you practically have to build your house around. His aunt sat on another bench, close to him, as he settled down, selective the music sheets he wanted to work on. Maybe a bit rusty for the  _ Danse Macabre _ , so he would train a bit. No need subjecting Zetiva to the mess it might become. She let him play. They were past the time when she was his teacher and would monitor him. He appreciated that - that she trusted him to see where he fucked up. And so he kept practicing, until the rusty feeling in his fingers was gone. He did not see the time passing, he barely even felt any itch at all, even on his nose - and wasn’t that the worst place to get a tattoo? At least he did not have hay fever, otherwise he was fairly certain he would have had to be tied down. 

He finished the piece, and looked back at Zetiva, who had that speculative expression she usually had when a master plan was afoot. Or something that Nabil referred to as a ‘cunning plan’. Although, unlike Baldrick’s, or Blackadder’s, Zetiva’s plans tended to work out. 

“Have you heard about that initiative that would have pianos being planted throughout the cities, parks and all, for people to play?”

“Yes?” He could see her coming, now, and he was not sure how he liked it. Besides, he could not go out so soon after getting his tattoo done. True, some people would, but Fang was a stickler for keeping his tats in mint condition as long as he possibly could. 

“It would start in September, and go on until the weather gets to shit, from what I heard. Could be a good thing for you, build your rep’ a bit.”

“Pissing off the rest of our relatives.”

Her grin as shark-like. “What a strange coincidence.”

He smiled back - and yes, his skin was back to not pinching, it felt awesome. “But there is something else, right?”

“There might be. You know how I still have many upper-class friends who apparently bear with my eccentricities. And while some still badger me to play - I haven’t played in ages - I think it would do you good to attend that kind of terribly boring evenings. Good thing is: you play what you want, after the mandatory waltz or whatever that is that people want to play these days, and food and drinks are provided. And you would get paid. And reputation would grow - and it would piss my sister off even better than anything you had done so far.”

“Short of screwing a guy on the dinner table. Which would be a nice way to finally destroy your aunt’s record for inappropriate behaviour at family gatherings.” Natil had come in silently, and was now stepping closer to lean against the piano’s frame. 

“I might. But not before I have finished all my tattoos.”

“Are you trying to wait for us to die?”

“You’re not that old.” 

Natil made a face - and Fang was pretty sure he was inwardly sticking his tongue at Zetiva. It was a kind of friendship he envied. Even if they married only for convenience, they could not fake the affection they had for each other. It made Fang highly critical of anyone dissing relationships that were not heterosexual, as if the gender of who you banged - or not - or lived with could impact the kind of person you were. It was the dumbest thing. But again, people could be incredibly stupid. He was born to two such people. Made him wish his aunt was right and he was, indeed, the mailman’s son. Or anything but his father’s kid. He shuddered. 

“Fang.”

He shook himself, stared back at Natil. Natil had been the one who had found the words, who had helped him getting out of the self-destructive spiral he had been caught in. It had taken him years, a good share of therapy, and a healthy dose of sarcasm. But he made it. And he knew he could not quite repay these people for what they had done. For having been guides when he had no compass left. Even if now, Zetiva was joking that she would have to find him a husband, because  _ really Fang, I will see you getting married, you have no choice, I will see you in a penguin suit _ . Also, cake. It was the kind of banter he would not have been able to stomach ten years ago. 

“You’d look dashing in pinstripes.”

Fang mock-snarled at him. “Jack Skellington jokes will be allowed only on Halloween.”

“But! Halloween must be prepared all year.” Natil skated away - he had to be skating, the man moved like he weighed nothing.

“Natil! You’re doing the dishes.”

“Yes m’am!”

Zetiva shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder why I even thought of marrying that idiot.”

“Well, a cat would probably be less loud.”

“I heard you and I resent that!”

“After nearly thirty years, you don’t quite bother with those things anymore. Besides, I got used to having these two around. And you too. Even if you have your own place.” 

Her hand moved towards his face and he just sat there, smiling. Until she caught herself and groused: “I keep wanting to ruffle your hair, you cheat!”


End file.
